


Unmasked

by Daughter_of_Scotland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fanfic for a fanfic, M/M, Pining, email
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-07
Updated: 2013-06-07
Packaged: 2017-12-14 06:13:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/833667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daughter_of_Scotland/pseuds/Daughter_of_Scotland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A wrongly sent email changes John’s life forever. But the one on the receiving end of said email might never know about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SunMonTue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunMonTue/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Online and Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/works/393946) by [SunMonTue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SunMonTue/pseuds/SunMonTue). 



> This can be read alone, but it is originally written for another story. Fair warning.
> 
> Written for sSunMonTue and her fanfic “Online and Anonymous”. It’s a Glee story, Kurtofsky. Believe me. It makes sense when you read her story (http://archiveofourown.org/works/393946?view_full_work=true) 
> 
> This first chapter is to be read AFTER chapter 14 of said story!

**A/N:** This is especially for FruitLover, because I’ve come to enjoy his friendship more than I ever thought possible. And I want, no, need to know what he would do if he were in John’s shoes in this story, because it’s kind of become really important in my real life right now. Hope to see you on the flip side.

_Afghanistan or Iraq?_

John blinks at the screen for a second, not really getting the message.

He checks the account – yes, it’s his – and then the sender’s email. None he knows. He frowns and types out a short message: **Did you get the wrong address? Who are you?**

He clicks ‘send’ and then logs out, closing his laptop. It’s dark outside, almost curfew and with a sigh he gathers his belongings to go back to his room.

Tomorrow they’ll have the final meeting and on Thursday he, alongside some of his colleagues, will be deported to Afghanistan, needed in the field. He’d just sent a mail to Harry, informing her of his going and – _shit!_

He blanches and opens the laptop again, cursing under his breath. When he logs on to his e-mail account and checks the sent ones, he curses louder. He’s sent the mail to a wrong address.

He shakes his head, angry with himself. It was just a small mix up, an S instead of a W, but it made all the difference.

He sighs and sends the mail again, double-checking the address this time, and just as he goes to log out he gets an alert for a new message. It’s from the same address as before and he clicks it warily.

 

You said you’re about to be deported. Seeing that you have an address from the Royal Army, it’s either Afghanistan or Iraq. The way you wrote you’re not actually a soldier, but someone with high education – an officer or a doctor, probably. Doctor, most likely, seeing that your mail didn’t sound worried that you’re going to be in actual battle. It’s probably your first time out there, so you’re nervous, but not overly anxious, which means you’re also brave.

_So. Where are you going?_

Huh. John frowns. This guy – he thinks it’s a guy, and why does he think that? – seems pretty full of himself.

Without thinking he types an answer:

 

Okay, I don’t know who you are, but that message wasn’t meant for you, I just typed the wrong address, sorry about that. And wow, you got all that just from a short message?

**I’m not sure if I should be impressed or annoyed. I think I’ll be both.**

**To answer your question, because I’m sure you won’t shut up before I do: Afghanistan, I’m a doctor and yes, it’s my first time going out there. There, happy? Is your curiosity sated now?**

**Oh, and thanks for the compliments, I think.**

John sends the email before he can change his mind. He then sits before his laptop for a moment, thinking. He really should go to bed… But part of him wants to wait, wants to see if there’s going to be an answer.

John scoffs. He’s a grown man, ready to go to battle, no teenage girl, waiting for their crush to answer their texts and – the chime of an incoming mail startles him out of his thoughts and he eagerly opens it.

 

Of course that message wasn’t meant for me, that’s obvious. Idiot. I gather you mixed up the email address because they’re close? Just one different letter, or maybe two? Easily to confuse for the lesser minded, I know. Well, no matter. Now that we’ve each other contact details, we should continue to write to each other, don’t you think? It might prove interesting, you will need every help you can get down there.

_So, you’re a doctor. Going down to save those fools from their mortal wounds… Very admirable. Question is: Why did you volunteer to go? The medical stuff doesn’t get picked randomly, they volunteer and undergo special training as you must have done. My guess is, you’re fleeing from something here, or you have a very large portion of self-sacrifice._

_Which is it?_

John stares at the mail, his mouth open. This guy – he’s even surer now it is a guy – is disgustingly rude! He types out an answer automatically, not even thinking about it.

 

You are really full of yourself, aren’t you? You seem to think very highly of yourself, it’s not an attractive trait, you know?

**Why do you think you could be of any help to me down there? Would you offer to look into medicine books and send me descriptions when my idiotc brain fails to remember my schooling? Yes, of course, that would help me.**

**I’m going because it’s the right thing to do – they need doctors, I am one. It’s only logical.**

**And really, you arse, why should I continue to talk to you when you’re just being an insufferable git?**

Ha! John grins as he sends the email, satisfied with himself. That should teach the guy!

He groans as he realises what he did and rolls his eyes. He’s not only waiting for an answer like a teenager, he’s also behaving like one. With a sigh he reaches out to close the laptop – for real this time – as another answer comes in.

John blinks. This guy is fast!

 

I have offended you. That wasn’t my intention. I do hope we’ll continue this conversation – it is rather intriguing. Also, the fact that you’re still answering me shows that you have a moderate interest in my messages, too – you could have just ignored my first email after all.

John laughs at that. Damn. The guy is right. With a sigh he types his next answer.

 

You’re right, I could have ignored you. But this is actually pretty distracting – and who doesn’t need a distraction every now and then?

**I leave on Thursday, I won’t have access to my emails all the time. If I do, however, I won’t be opposed to writing to you. If you don’t behave like an arse.**

**And now I have to go. Good night, mysterious git somewhere in London (see? I can also read email addresses – yours is a London one).**

John smiles and closes his laptop, packing it up to go to bed. He has one more day in Britain and suddenly he thinks it will be way more interesting as he expected it to be.

And he’s sure he’ll check his emails more often from now on.

 

***

 

The meeting went well and John goes to lunch feeling considerably assured. He’ll go down to Afghanistan and save as many lives as he can. That’s the plan he’s had for two years now, and he doesn’t intend to change it. It’s too late now anyway.

He throws himself into the preparations, alongside his comrades, and only in the evening, at supper, he remembers his emails and his mysterious pen-pal or e-mail pal, or whatever the modern day equivalent is called now.

He opens his laptop and pulls up his emails – sure enough, there is one from last night, an answer to his last email, but also a second one from a few hours earlier.

John opens the earlier one first.

 

I’m very aware of the problems with internet access you’ll face down there. I won’t worry if you don’t answer every night, rest assured. It was just a notion I had, hearing from the war outside of the media or governmental sources.

_Very good, placing me in London. That is correct, although right now I’m in Bath, trying to figure out what drugs have to do with missing cats. Too easy a case._

John frowns. He doesn’t really understand that last part, but hopes the other email will clear it up. He opens that one now, surprised at the shortness of it.

 

Case closed. Had to leave Bath, the Police wasn’t fond of me calling them idiots. Pity, they should acknowledge their shortcomings to improve their situation.

_Scotland Yard called, have to go._

John shakes his head. This sounds like the guy is working with the Police – or at least for them. Reluctantly he opens a new email and thinks before he writes.

 

I’m very curious about your job now. First I thought you were pestering the Police, interfering with their work, but now it sounds as if they actually want you to?

**What are you? Are you a retired police man, maybe? Or a private investigator?**

He answers an email from Harry and one from Mike, a friend from St. Barts, as he waits for an answer. As the minutes tick by and no new email comes, he feels strangely disappointed and scolds himself for the feeling.

There’s a mad man running around London, striking up conversations with strangers via email – and he actually waits for his answers. John sighs. Maybe he’s the mad man?

At that moment he hears the chime of a new mail and can’t hold back the smile on his face as he sees it’s from his mysterious new associate.

 

_I can assure you, I’m not retired. My job will never let me do so. The Police often finds themselves in predicaments where their stupidity prevents them from closing cases – they ask me for help. It’s pretty simple and mostly done very quickly (really, with a bit of thinking they might as well do it on their own!)._

_I have to tell you, I’ve got a new case today, so I won’t be able to write to you again tonight._

_I hope your flight will be pleasant – and do try to not get yourself killed._

John has to chuckle at the last line. It’s obviously a very strange way of saying “Take care” but he’ll take what he can get.

 

 **Your job sounds interesting,** he writes, **maybe you can tell me more about it one day.**

**Good luck with your case. And don’t worry – I’ll take care of myself. Thanks for caring.**

**Talk to you soon.**

He hits “send” and closes his laptop. He’ll enjoy his last night on British soil and rest – the flight to Afghanistan is long and will make him nervous enough.

Tonight he wants to relax. Who knows when he can do that next?

 

***

 

It’s been six months since he arrived here and since then John has had to change locations ten times. He has saved more people than he lost, which makes him happy, but he also knows it’s far from over.

Home seems to be more than just miles away – it seems like a dream some days. Days where there’s only sand, and blood, and gunshots. And death. Always death.

Whenever he has the opportunity to check his emails, he does, the random messages from the stranger back in London one of the only things keeping him grounded.

They are numerous – some short, little things, others longer and elaborate rants. Mostly about the stupidity of Scotland Yard, which John shouldn’t find as funny as he does.

He finds that he lives for the days where he can just sit down with his laptop and read through all the messages, answer some of them and tell The Stranger (because they still haven’t exchanged names, it’s just never come up) about his own days.

The Stranger doesn’t offer sympathy or warm words (he still calls John an idiot every so often, and never apologises, but John has accepted that about him and calls him a git or an arse whenever he feels like it, too), instead distracts him with news from London, titbits from his hometown and even the occasional story from his childhood.

By now John thinks he might know this man very well for someone he actually doesn’t know at all and it makes him… happy. Which is strange, given his situation, surrounded by war, but it is what it is.

 

John thinks about telling The Stranger this. Actually typing it out in an email, saying that he enjoys their exchange and that, when he comes back from Afghanistan (which will take at least six more months, but that doesn’t matter, does it?) they should meet, get to know each other, because he’s convinced they could become really good friends – and even a man of his age needs friends, right?

Yes, John’s thinking about all this, right up to the point when he hears the screams, sees the first men go down and the shooting begins.

 

He’s running, screaming, grasping at a fallen friend, a comrade – hurt? Yes, badly, already dead, run, runrunRUN, find the next one, go, save PAINPAINPAIN!

And the world around John goes black.

 

***

 

The next time John has the peace and quiet (and, honestly, the _mind_ ) to check his emails, there are over 20 from The Stranger.

At first they’re the usual titbits of the other man’s life, but soon they end up being only questions. Asking about him. If he’s still there. If he’s okay.

And then the last – two months after he’s been shot, it’s now another month later – only stating one thing:

 

I have accepted your death. Goodbye.

 

John stares at the email, his hands hovering over the “answer” button. But what is he supposed to say? “Hey, I’ve been shot, but survived, let’s go back to how it was?”

He shakes his head and closes the email. He can’t do this. Can’t ruin another life because of him. Because The Stranger has clearly moved on – he’s brilliant, he won’t linger on someone like John after he’s accepted his death – and John can’t find it in him to walk back into his life.

Hell, he can’t even walk into his own, how should he converse with a stranger then?

John sighs and opens his blog – the one he’s supposed to write for his therapist, who says it will get better.

“But what if it never does?” John asks aloud and stands, grabbing his cane.

He’ll go out, enjoy London, his city, try to feel at home again.

 

***

 

John walks behind Mike down the corridors, into the lab of St. Barts.

He looks at the man there – younger than him, probably – staring back at him with a calculating look in his eyes.

John opens his mouth to say something but the man interrupts him.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John feels his face go pale, and his mind races. It can’t be, it’s not possible! So he asks for clarification and the man rattles of a ridiculous amounts of facts and all John can do is stare.

Because he knows that voice – well, not the voice, but the words, the tone. He recognises it from endless nights of messaging, of receiving hope in a hopeless situation.

This man, standing before him, wanting to share a flat with him, is The Stranger.

Sherlock Holmes. Possible Flatmate.

And there is no way in hell a clever man like him doesn’t know who he is, he _has_ to know.

 

And John waits. Waits for Sherlock to acknowledge him, waits for him to tell him that he _knows_ – but Sherlock doesn’t. 

He doesn’t say a word and John is left in limbo, even as he agrees to move in, as Sherlock makes him realize he doesn’t need the cane, as he fires a shot to save The Stranger’s life (The Stranger who isn’t a Stranger anymore, because he’s Sherlock now) – Sherlock never says anything.

And John doesn’t know what to do about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter belongs to Chapter 32 of Online and Anonymous! Read this story AFTER reading said Chapter!

**A/N:** For FruitLover, thank you for letting our online friendship develop into something more and reminding me every day of all the good things in life. I love you. There’s no ‘think’ about it.

 

It’s been weeks and Sherlock still doesn’t know. Or, well, hasn’t said anything to John about it at least.

Because it’s not possible that he doesn’t know, right?

He’s _Sherlock Holmes_!

He _has_ to know.

John knows, without even looking for it, that there are dozens of ways for Sherlock to realize that John is the person he exchanged emails with months ago. He just needed to check John’s background, comparing his deporting details to the ones from the email-John  plus some other minor stuff and there: All easy to figure out.

 

Mycroft managed it, after all.

It had been a while after the serial killer incident, but he’d been… _invited_ to join Mycroft once again and the older Holmes told him very clearly that he knew that John and Sherlock used to write emails to each other. He didn’t divulge _how_ but he he called it _cute,_ of all things, and told John he wouldn’t tell Sherlock – and neither should he.

Because, of course Sherlock would know already. And the fact that he didn’t tell John could only mean one thing: He didn’t want John to know that he’s been writing to him before, for whatever reason, because clearly, in Sherlock’s mind, John would never be smart enough to realize it. All this is just insulting to John himself and he needs to stop thinking about it because it gives him a headache.

 

So yeah. Mycroft knows and he’s sure Sherlock does, too. But Sherlock doesn’t say anything.

And that’s just really, really frustrating.

 

***

 

John tried. He tried _so_ hard.

When he’d been back in Afghanistan, it had been easy. His mind was always on other things, mainly: Surviving.

He might have been attracted to one or two of the guys on his watch, but nothing ever happened.

He was even able to acknowledge the fact that the way The Stranger wrote turned him on sometimes – not his fault intelligence was a turn-on for him, really.

And when he found out The Stranger was actually Sherlock… well. He didn’t stand a chance.

Then Sherlock made it clear he was married to his work. And what a lovely marriage that was.

John realized he’d never be able to tell Sherlock all the stuff he wanted to say – that his emails had been the only reason he managed to get through the day sometimes. That they made him laugh amidst blood and dust and death. That he waited eagerly for the chance to check and see if he got a new one.

He couldn’t tell Sherlock because Sherlock didn’t _know_ and because he was married to his work so there was no _point_ for John to make his feelings known.

So he tried.

He dated women – it wasn’t that he was leading them on, after all, he wasn’t gay, bisexual would be a more fitting term – and he denied it every time when someone commented on him being Sherlock’s boyfriend.

After a while though, he stopped. Firstly, no one believed him. Secondly… Well. Why should he deny it when he actually wanted it?

He still wouldn’t say anything to Sherlock, of course. No. He couldn’t risk it, wouldn’t be able to deal with the rejection.

So he kept his feelings to himself. Mostly. Sadly, everyone seemed to know about them. Except Sherlock.

Go figure.

 

***

 

They’d survived Moriarty.

John still couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t sure he’d ever come to terms with the fact that Molly’s boyfriend of all people was the evil mastermind behind all those crimes, that he’d been ready to sacrifice himself for Sherlock (okay, no, he wasn’t really surprised about that, really) and that he’d been okay with Sherlock blowing them all up just to get that bastard down… but he had been.

He’d survived a war, getting shot, but he was still ready to die for Sherlock’s cause. For Sherlock.

He really was born to be a soldier.

 

John takes a shuddering breath, lying in his bed. Now he has to deal with something else. Someone else.

Irene Adler.

Just thinking of her makes him angry.

And the problem is, he knows exactly why but can’t do anything about it.

Sherlock apparently feels attracted to women after all.

John turns to lie on his side and closes his eyes. He won’t cry over this, he isn’t a teenager anymore.

Well, the guy you like is married to his work and straight. That’s fine. It doesn’t matter. He’s still your best friend and he likes you well enough, so be happy with that.

But John knows it’s not enough.

 

Then everything goes to hell.

 

 

***

 

“There’s something I’d like to try out,” Sherlock tells him the next day over breakfast. (Well, John eats some toast while Sherlock drinks tea. Breakfast for them.)

John looks up from the paper, frowning a bit.

“Yes?” he asks, urging Sherlock to go on.

The other man stands up and walks over to John, bending down and, without missing a beat, kisses him hard.

John gasps, his hands crumbling the paper in shock, as Sherlock pushes his tongue into John’s mouth, letting it run over his teeth and wraps around John’s own in a slick dance.

Before John’s brain can even comprehend what’s going on and how he should react, Sherlock steps back, licking his lips.

“Huh,” he says, sounding confused, and leaves the room.

John is left at the table, his mouth open and he’s staring after Sherlock, his mind a mess of confusion, hurt and _oh god, again!_

 

***

 

Sherlock has been gone the whole day while John is left to distract himself. It was his free day, too, which left him to clean the apartment and more or less just sit around.

After a few hours he sighs, defeated, and pulls out his laptop.

Now he’s sitting before it and writing an email. To Sherlock. Or, more accurately, The Stranger. He’d never send it, of course, but he felt the need to write down his feelings anyway.

 

 _You know, you’re an idiot,_ the email started. _You’re supposed to be the smartest man in London, hell, all of England. You solve crimes like it’s a pre-school activity and still you can’t figure out the most simple things._

_Like how I stopped denying you’re my boyfriend._

_Like the way I stare at you._

_Like the way I killed a man for you just two days after meeting you._

_Damn you, Sherlock. You_ have to _know who I am. How can you not? It’s so obvious, even in my eyes._

_So, what are you doing? Either you know and don’t want to tell me or you don’t know, which just makes you stupid._

_Maybe I should have told you right after I found out. But how? I was so sure you knew and you didn’t say anything and I thought you didn’t want me to know._

_You accepted my death, you said. What would you have done if I had told you I was still alive? And living with you? Would you have turned me away?_

_I think yes._

_I think I was a distraction, like I still am, just now in the flesh, and if I had told you who I am, you would have gotten bored with me – with the mystery._

_I couldn’t risk that, Sherlock._

_I wanted to tell you for so long… that your emails changed and_ saved _my life, you idiot. Without them, I would have grown empty, would have given up. But I had them, I had_ you _and that made such a difference._

_I don’t think I can go back to a life without you._

_I think I_

He stops writing then, saving the email in a draft. He can’t continue it, not now. Maybe not ever. He couldn’t take the rejection and even writing it down made it more real, made it easier for him to get hurt.

John, the soldier, wasn’t brave enough to risk that.

 

***

 

It’s late and John just wants to go to bed. But Sherlock’s back and he has a question.

“You want _what_?” John asks, his eyes wide and he’s staring again but he can’t bring himself to care right now. Is he imagining things now or…?

“I want to have sex with you,” Sherlock says, again, and, okay, apparently John is not losing his mind.

A laugh bubbles up in his chest and he knows it’s more hysterics than anything else. “Why?” he manages to get out, trying to hide the shaking of his hands.

Sherlock shrugs. “It’s an experiment,” he says evenly. “And I know you’re not opposed to me – you stopped pointing out we’re not boyfriends to people.”

Well, yes, John had done that, but he didn’t know Sherlock noticed. Anyway, since then was that a good reason to sleep with someone?

“I did,” he says carefully, trying to think. “But why would you want to sleep with me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes, as if John is stupid to ask, and in Sherlock’s mind he probably is, but out here, in the real world, John just asked a very legitimate question!

“I told you, it’s an experiment,” Sherlock says, sounding patronizing. “I need to know the difference between a man’s arousal and orgasm compared to a woman’s.”

That shocks John just a bit more and damn it, it _hurts_.

“So you spend the day sleeping with a woman and now come home to sleep with me?” he asks, his voice disturbingly calm.

Sherlock looks at him in confusion. “Of course not,” he says. “I intend to go out and look for a woman tomorrow, today I was just thinking of all the details.”

That doesn’t really hurt less, but at least he came to John first… wait.

“Why me?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “Please, John. Who else?”

And that’s it, that’s good enough for John apparently, because he hears himself agreeing without even thinking about it.

Because if Sherlock really wants to have sex with a man and comes to him for it… what’s there left to say, really?

 

***

 

It’s a tangle of clothes, arms, legs and John really fears for his bed as they walk onto it ungracefully, John underneath Sherlock who’s already only wearing his boxers while John still has the security of his pants and damn – Sherlock hasn’t changed much since he’s seen him at Buckingham Palace in just a bedsheet.

“Wait, wait,” John pants, mouth red and swollen from their frantic kissing (all the way up the stairs and he isn’t sure if that’s part of Sherlock’s experiment but he’s not complaining). It feels too dry so it takes him a bit before he can speak and in that time Sherlock has already pulled down his pants.

“We can’t have real sex,” he continues, licking his lips as Sherlock looks at him sharply.

“Why not?” the detective asks and John swallows.

“Because I… I don’t, we don’t have supplies and…” _And it’s nothing I want to do with you for an experiment but I can’t say that oh my god don’t ask, please._

Sherlock frowns but then nods.

“Well then,” he says, pushing his hips down and John lets out a helpless moan as he feels Sherlock’s dick _oh god, it’s his dick and this feels really good_ grinding into his and scrabbles to grab his shoulders.

“We’re doing this, then,” Sherlock finishes, his eyes slightly out of focus.

He moves his hands to push down both their underwear and suddenly they’re naked, Sherlock looming over John and they’re kissing again and John would really like to never wake up because this must be a dream.

They grind against each other slowly, at first, but it soon gets more frantic, more hot more… _everything._

There’s a noise in John’s head and he knows, if he concentrates on it too much, he will realize what he’s doing – who he’s doing it with, and isn’t that just funny? – and call a stop to it.

So he doesn’t listen, just concentrates on the feeling of Sherlock grinding into him, the taste of his neck as John sucks bruises into the pale skin and the firm hand pulling his hair as he rakes his nails over a smooth back.

It doesn’t take long for either one of them to come – John has waited for this too long and Sherlock… Well, John’s pretty sure Sherlock hasn’t come in a long while, actually, and that usually means it’s over very soon.

He doesn’t know who comes first, but suddenly there’s cum on his stomach and his vision goes white for a moment as he hears Sherlock cry out above him and, no matter the circumstances, it’s as perfect as John had hoped.

But then Sherlock, the real Sherlock, the calculating, logical one, is back and he stands up, reaching for a towel to clean up himself and then handing it to John before reaching for his pants.

“Thank you,” he says politely, even though John is sure there’s a wavering note in it. “This was really… Well… uhm… Yes.”

He leaves then and John is once again left behind, quickly drying cum on his stomach and he swears he can hear his heart break.

 

***

 

John sits at his laptop again, looking over the email he wrote the previous day. He adds a few parts, feeling hollow. He doesn’t think, he just types, no matter the consequences. If Sherlock’s reaction is negative, well, he’ll leave leave the flat. Find somewhere else to live, some other action in his life. He can’t stay here if Sherlock doesn’t feel for him, too, if last night was really nothing more than an experiment.

 

 _(…) I wanted to tell you for so long… that your emails changed and_ saved _my life, you idiot. Without them, I would have grown empty, would have given up. But I had them, I had_ you _and that made such a difference._

_I don’t think I can go back to a life without you._

_I think I – no, I_ know _I love you, Sherlock Holmes. You’re an idiot, a damn git, but I still love you._

_Last night was everything I’ve dreamt of. But for you, it was just an experiment, and that hurts, Sherlock, it hurts even more than getting shot, more than almost dying._

_I won’t bother you with my feelings if you can’t return them. I’ll leave the flat and your life. I can’t stay here when I know you don’t feel the same._

_But I need you to know. I need you to understand._

_Don’t go through with your experiment. Don’t sleep with a random woman (and for god’s sake, don’t ask Molly and break her heart, too!) and then come back and tell me about your observations. I can’t take it._

John re-reads the email once more and then clicks ‘send’.

Sherlock will get it right away, whereever he is, and make of it what he will. John sits at the table, not sure what to do now. Should he start packing, just in case? Look for another flat?

But he doesn’t want that, he wants Sherlock to come home and tell him he feels the same, John should stay, they could –

 

He’s interrupted when he hears footsteps on the stairs, clearly recognizable as Sherlocks, and takes a deep breath before looking at the door.

Looking at Sherlock, coming into the room, his phone in his hand and a look of utter confusion on his face, and something John can’t quite name. He hopes it isn’t disgust.

 

 

“John.”

It comes out more as an exhale as anything else and John shivers. It’s the same way Sherlock had said his name last night, shortly before coming.

“Yes,” he answers, almost without thought.

Sherlock comes closer, clearly distressed. “I,” he starts and stops, licking his lips. “It’s you,” he says and John nods. “Yes,” he says again and wants to laugh at their apparent inabillity to form clear sentences.

Sherlock sits down in the chair opposite John and puts the phone between them, displaying the email. He gestures to it weakly. “What… why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

John shudders. “Because I thought you knew,” he says, not sure how to feel about Sherlock’s reaction. “I thought you didn’t want me to know… And Mycroft – he knows, too – said it would be better not to speak about it… I thought you wanted to forget…” He doesn’t say ‘ _me’_ but it lingers in the air anyway.

Sherlock swallows. “I didn’t know,” he says and his face is so open, so vulnerable, John has never seen it like that before. “I thought he – _you_ – were dead and I didn’t want to think about it anymore. It felt like I’d lost a friend. And suddenly… It was you, all the time?”

He clearly can’t wrap his head around it and looks at the email again. “It really meant that much to you?” he asks. “All the little, boring things I wrote you?”

John has to smile at that. “I told you, didn’t I?” he asks. “They meant everything.” He steels himself and looks Sherlock right in the face. “ _You_ mean everything.”

Sherlock blinks and looks down at his phone again. “But… Why me?”

John gapes at him. “You really have to ask?” he wonders and, at Sherlock’s hesitant nod, shakes his head.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I just know that whenever I got a new email from you I had to smile. And though I admit that you’re a terrible know-it-all sometimes, rude and kind of an arse… I love you. You’ve gotten under my skin. I killed a man for you before I even knew the you outside of your emails. I’m ready to give my life for you, you _know_ that.

Last night… I did it because I thought it would be the only chance I’d ever get. But it hurts, Sherlock, thinking that it meant nothing more to you than an experiment. So, I’m telling you again: If you don’t feel anything for me, I’ll leave. Because I can’t stay here if you don’t feel anything for me. Not anymore.”

 

They’re engaged in a silent staring match for what seems like minutes but is probably not more than one.

Suddenly, Sherlock smiles. One of his rare, genuine smiles and just with that, hope blooms in John’s chest.

“I was so glad you continued to write to me,” Sherlock says, quietly. “When you stopped, I thought… It felt like losing something of myself. I found it again when you came here… Now I have to understand that you were the same person all along? How could I ever let you go again?”

John returns the smile, brightly, without hesitation.

“So you’re not going to go and shag a woman then?” he asks, just for clarification and Sherlock snorts.

“Oh, please,” he says, and there’s a note of the normal Sherlock in it. “You really think I would go through with such a ridiculous experiment? I just didn’t know how else to ask you to let me sleep with you.”

John, as per usual when confrontated with the depths of Sherlock’s mind, is speechless.

“You _git_!” he manages to get out and Sherlock laughs.

“You love it,” he grins and stands up, walking closer.

John shakes his head and grins. “That I do,” he nods and pulls Sherlock down bis his coat to kiss him as hard as he can.

Because now he finally can.


End file.
